The Art of Living Without Regret
by olndina
Summary: "To regret the past is to forfeit the future." -Chinese Proverb.  Zevran and Alistair teach each other how to turn past regrets into future happiness.  This is slash and M for a reason.
1. Chapter 1

Edited 26 November 2011 (It's a sickness, I know. I can't help but edit stuff when I re-read my work… specially if I find glaring errors).

There are relatively few things I own in this world… DA is not one of them. I do, however, hold a firm grasp of English Grammar, Usage, and Mechanics, as well as a fertile and dirty imagination. Please enjoy.

~~X~~

Chapter 1

"Bored" was not the correct descriptor. Alistair was _restless_. He longed for action, for battle, for spilling darkspawn blood. He almost wished that an entire fist of darkspawn would storm their camp right at that moment so that he could kill something.

It was Analisse bloody Amell's fault. Since he had told her of his parentage, she had refused to take him with her whenever she called in one of their treaties.

"Alistair, you and Leliana guard the camp."

If he heard that phrase one more time, he was going to strip to his small clothes, find the nearest darkspawn camp, and sing one of Oghren's drinking songs.

Okay, he had to admit it to himself; it was Alistair bloody Theirin's fault.

He sheathed his sword. It wasn't really in need of cleaning anyway. He stretched and stood from his bedroll. It was his night for first watch. The sky was cloudless, the stars were bright, and the air was crisp. He paced around the camp, pausing at the tent of each of his companions.

As usual, Analisse and Leliana, Morrigan, and Sten were all quiet as he passed by their tents. The mabari Daggers didn't even stir within Analisse and Leliana's tent. Wynne, the mage from the Tower and newest member of their group, was quiet as well. Oghren was talking in his sleep, predictably, and appeared to be bartering with a nug trader over the price of a particularly juicy specimen. Alistair shuddered. Nug was not one of his most favorite meals. He continued his circle of the camp.

There were a number of sounds Alistair would have expected to come from Zevran's tent, but crying was not one of them. He froze in mid-step, and held his breath. He could hear nothing, and had almost convinced himself that he had imagined the whole thing when the Crow spoke, "You're not quite as adept as sneaking around as you might think, Alistair."

Alistair let out the breath he was holding, and squatted at the entrance to Zevran's tent. He pulled the flap back. In the firelight, he could see that the elf was sitting up, stripped to his waist. "Is everything… I mean, can I do something for you, Zevran?"

"An interesting question, and one whose answer I have made quite clear in the past, no?"

Alistair felt his cheeks flush with embarrassment. "That's not what I mean. I'm sorry to have disturbed you." He made a move to leave, but in a movement Alistair was hard-pressed to see, Zevran had grabbed his wrist.

"Please, do not go. I did not wish to drive you away." Alistair relaxed back on his heels. He waited for Zevran to continue, or not continue, as was the assassin's wont. Zevran finally released his wrist and drew a deep breath before he spoke. "Have the others told you about what happened at the Circle of Magi?"

They had just returned from the Tower that afternoon. Analisse filled Alistair in on the pertinent details—that they had secured the aid of the mages for the Blight as well as for helping Analisse to enter the Fade to rescue Connor—but apart from mentioning that the sloth demon had trapped them and they escaped, Alistair knew nothing. "Analisse said that you were enthralled by a sloth demon."

"And did your fellow Warden tell you that she rescued each of us from our own prisons in the Fade?"

"No."

"Hmm… I do not know what the others experienced, but for me, the sloth demon did little to make me want to stay in that waking dream for the rest of my life, short as that may have been at the time. I was sold to the Crows when I was very young, and I began my training almost immediately. This was in the most innocuous of Crow talents, though. I learned how to handle weapons, mix basic poisons, and sneak around without being noticed. It was not until I was in my teens, however, that my true training began. As part of our training, we are put to torture." Alistair sucked air in through his teeth, but Zevran did not stop talking. "The sloth demon recreated for me a particularly grueling session with the rack. In fact, it was my last such session. I was hours on the rack, days it felt like. I had been beaten, but I had not broken yet." Alistair heard the swell of pride in Zevran's voice, even as he felt his own heart constrict at the very idea that any being was forced to endure such torture. "There were rumors, of course, that if we broke too soon, we would be killed. I had no desire to die, and I refused to yield. I had not had a proper meal, and I wanted nothing more than a bath. I met my mentor that night, and through the night and into dawn, he would… well, suffice to say that his treatment of me was such that I was a breath away from begging for death when he whispered into my ear, 'Congratulations. You are my Crow.' It was then they gave me these." He gestured to the curves on the left side of his face. "I had never been more proud of anything in my life." He stopped talking and stared past Alistair and into the fire.

Alistair reached out with a gloved hand and touched his foot. Zevran flinched and met his gaze.

"I am sorry, Zev."

The Antivan gave him a half smile. "I thank you, Alistair, but you have no reason to be sorry. And, usually, I am not so sorry. Very few things in this world make me regret surviving the Crow initiation process, but tonight I was simply overwhelmed with the idea that if I had broken, then perhaps the Crows would have killed me, and then, perhaps, well, certain things would not have happened."

"I understand regret."

"Oh?"

The look of disbelief on Zevran's face caused Alistair to withdraw his hand from Zevran's foot and snap, "Of course I have regrets."

"Ah, yes, perhaps I should not have eaten that last bite of cake? Perhaps I should have asked that pretty lass to dance? Perhaps I should-"

"Perhaps I should have forced Duncan to let me fight at Ostagar. Perhaps I should have been there, to protect him. Perhaps I should have died, instead of him." Alistair hadn't shouted, but Zevran jerked as if he had. Alistair flung Zevran's tent flap closed, and stomped back across the camp. He looked up at the stars, wishing his watch were over, and wishing he could crawl into his own tent and sleep. Maybe he'd even have a darkspawn dream, and not the normal nightmare of Duncan dying and accusing him of abandoning him. He wrapped his arms around himself, hugging himself for comfort. It had been a long time since someone had hugged him, and he missed the warmth of another's touch, the warmth of friendship.

He stayed that way for a few moments, and idly wished for that darkspawn attack again. When no darkspawn seemed inclined to oblige him, however, he decided to check the traps they had set around the camp for animals.

~~X~~

Zevran heard Alistair moving around the camp again. He truly had not meant to be so flippant with the Grey Warden, but he had not wanted to entertain the idea that someone could hurt as much as he did at that moment. He lay back down in his bedroll, pulling his furs up to his chin. He stared up into the darkness of his tent and tried desperately not to think about _her_. But, of course, he did.

He thought of Rinna's smile when he would wake up in the mornings to find her already looking at him.

He thought of Rinna's eyes and how they sparkled when she was working on a new poison.

He thought of Rinna's tears as she begged him not to kill her.

Zevran did not sleep that night, and he heard when Alistair woke Sten for second watch. For a moment, just a brief moment, his grief-filled thoughts of Rinna were replaced by guilt-filled thoughts of Alistair.

He would have to apologize to the warden.

~~X~~

It wasn't until three nights later that Zevran actually got around to apologizing to Alistair, and even then, he didn't actually come out and say the words, "I am sorry."

It was Alistair's turn at watch again, and Zevran sat up and waited for him to walk by his tent. When he heard the twig snap, he called out, "Alistair?"

There was a rustle then firelight shone in his tent as Alistair lifted the flap. "Yes."

"There is a distinct possibility that I was rude to you the other night."

"Yes."

"I should not have been."

"No."

"I will refrain from doing so in the future."

Alistair snorted. "Yeah, that's bloody likely. Zevran, has anyone ever told you that you shouldn't make promises you don't intend to keep? Wait; don't answer that. Assassin: you always make promises you don't intend to keep."

"I assure you, I, well, if not always, I _usually_ keep my word." Zevran spread his hands out in front of him on his furs. "Okay, I shall refrain from being rude to you about certain topics in the future. Will that suffice?"

"That will suffice."

"Excellent. Now, the subject of your virginity-"

Alistair groaned, "Can that please be one of those off-limits topics?"

"Never."

"I thought as much. Come on, do your worst."

"Perhaps a childhood maiming incident robbed you of the proper parts for pleasing a woman, no?"

"Oh, ho-hum. Yes. I have the proper parts, but what makes you so sure I would use them to please a woman?"

There were very few things in the world that shocked Zevran.

In fact, there were only two things in Zevran's life that had ever shocked him before this.

The less shocking had been when he had discovered that Leliana was a trained Orlesian spy who had completely fooled him into buying that Chantry nonsense. The more shocking of the two had been when Analisse had decided _not_ to kill him after his pathetic attempt at assassinating her.

Alistair's little announcement had just shot the other two right out of the water.

He actually felt his mouth drop open in surprise, and did not miss the smug smile that crossed the almost-templar's face before Alistair stood up and let the tent flap close.

Zevran didn't sleep again that night.

Only this time, when he stared up into the darkness of his tent, it was Alistair's face he saw, and that made him smile.

~~X~~

It was not Alistair's night to take watch, but he was still awake.

He was restless again, anxious for something to happen, but this time it was not for a darkspawn attack.

Alistair was hard.

He had tried to do everything, other than the obvious, to relieve his situation, but to no avail.

He had even gone through the several verses of the Chant of Light he actually knew, figuring a little holy-rolling would banish all traces of arousal within the first few lines. He was wrong.

He willed himself to think of the coldest day, and then he pictured Wynne _naked_ on that cold day. Unfortunately, whenever he did, she simply transformed into Zevran naked on a balmy, breezy day (like today), and new jolts of pleasure shot straight to his cock and he was as stiff as ever.

Zevran bloody Arainai.

For whatever tortuous and unholy reason, Zevran had asked Leliana to teach him some of her Orlesian spy techniques. Leliana agreed, and the two had started flashing their daggers at one another. Then, Zevran decided it was _too hot_ to wear his bloody armor, and had stripped to his waist. With the sweat gleaming and the muscles rippling, Alistair could only stare, and pray he didn't drool.

And when they were done training, Zevran had decided that his hair was _simply a disaster_, and taken his braids out, shaking his hair loose. His sweat-dampened hair still shone blonde in the afternoon sun, and Alistair had to wipe his mouth when he realized that he _was_ drooling.

'Too hot'_ my well-toned arse_. It wasn't that it was hot, so much that it was simply warmer than it had been in several weeks. Alistair had felt perfectly comfortable sitting in the sun with his armor on. He hadn't felt the need to prance around the camp and show the others his washboard abs, or the way the blonde hair grew darker down the middle of his stomach until it was practically a brown as it disappeared below the waist of his skirt.

Alistair moaned, and found that he had started stroking himself without consciously deciding to do so. He bit his lip to prevent more sound from escaping, and thought, _The hell with it,_ and began picking up tempo. He crooked his knees, and spread his legs further apart, garnering some resistance against the padding of his blankets. He felt sweat spring out on his body, and his heart was racing. _No it's bloody hot._

He imagined untying the laces of Zevran's trousers, and seeing just how dark the hair got. He imagined pressing his face into the middle of that hair, breathing deeply, and then taking Zevran into his mouth. Zevran would buck his hips, and reach down to guide Alistair's head, and-

Alistair arched his back and lifted his backside off the ground as he came, spurting his seed onto his stomach. He stayed that way, riding out his orgasm, his mouth wide open in a silent scream.

He collapsed then, his muscles useless. He forced himself to slow down his breathing, to stop sounding like a mabari in the hot sun with no water. Little aftershocks of pleasure shot through him. He fumbled around with a hand until he found a water skin. He cleaned himself off as best he could before crashing into sleep, a smile on his lips.

~~X~~


	2. Chapter 2

Edited 20 December 2011

Thank you for the reviews and alerts!

There are relatively few things I own in this world… DA is not one of them.

I do, however, hold a firm grasp of English Grammar, Usage, and Mechanics, as well as a fertile and dirty imagination. Please enjoy.

~~X~~

Chapter 2

Zevran sank gratefully into the hot water and oils of his bathtub. He couldn't remember when the last time a bath had been more than just a quick splashing of water on his face, and he had long since made himself forget the last time he had washed his hair properly.

Going into the Fade in quick succession had been hard on Analisse, and after saving the boy Connor from the desire demon, she needed to rest and regain her strength and magic. Zevran could have stayed at Redcliffe Castle with his other companions, but he did not wish to do so. Staying in the tavern's room was a much preferable choice for him. Fereldan castles were so typically _Fereldan_, and only made Zevran long for the luxurious palaces of Antiva. A tavern inn was a tavern inn no matter where he was, and Zevran could close his eyes and almost imagine that he was back at home. He added more oil to his bath. He knew that he would run out of the substance before the week was up, but in a week they would be back on the road and it wouldn't matter how much he had. When the Blight was all over, and Zevran could disappear from the Crows for good, he was going to have to get more from home.

Zevran was just thinking about all of the good things he wanted from home, when someone knocked at the door, shattering his reverie. He reached for the dagger he had set beside the tub and called, "Enter."

The door opened, and of all the people to walk in, Zevran had not expected it to be Alistair.

"Oh, Maker, I'm sorry! I didn't mean to-"

"Alistair. What a pleasant surprise." Zevran let go of the dagger and picked up his cake of soap. "Please, come in."

"Are you sure? I don't want to disturb you."

"My dear warden, I would not have invited you to come in if I did not want your company."

"Thanks." Alistair came all the way into the room, and Zevran was surprised to see that he was carrying his bedroll and bags.

"Are you moving in?"

Alistair grinned sheepishly and dropped his stuff on the floor before sitting down in the room's only chair. "I can't stay at the castle. I wasn't welcomed there when I was a child, and Isolde keeps glaring at me. Maker, I feel like I'm seven years old again. I was going to find a room here, but you booked the last one."

"So what will you do now?" Zevran had gone back to relaxing. He had leaned his head back and closed his eyes.

"I suppose there's always the stables. I spent more than one night out there before going to Denerim. It wouldn't be so bad, really. I have lots of fond memories of those stables. And the horses? They're not such bad company."

Zevran lifted his head and gave the Fereldan a piercing look. "Do not be so ridiculous. This room is more than big enough for the both of us. You will stay here."

"But there's only one bed."

Zevran shrugged. "It is a large bed, no? Surely we can both sleep on it."

"Or, I could have a mattress brought down from the castle."

"Or, you could have a mattress brought down from the castle." Zevran dipped his head under the water, wetting his hair completely. He groaned with pleasure when he resurfaced. "Maker, that does feel wonderful."

"I can't believe how long your hair has gotten."

Zevran made a noncommittal noise. Truthfully, it was a little longer than he preferred.

"I like it." Alistair's voice was low and husky. It caused Zevran to freeze for a half heartbeat before he continued wringing out his washcloth. He did not dare look at the other man, afraid that the look of blatant desire on his face would scare Alistair off. In the next heartbeat, he decided that he wasn't going to cut his hair for a very long time.

They sat in relative silence for a while. The only sounds came from Zevran as he moved around in the bathtub. The water had cooled considerably, as well as his arousal, and it was just about time for him to get out. He lathered soap in his hair. If Alistair had been some mark he was sent to seduce, he would have had no hesitation in asking him to help him wash his hair. It was an erotic, sensual experience, and Zevran knew at least twelve different ways to moan a man into arousal. But, Alistair wasn't a mark, at least not anymore. He was becoming a companion, and even a friend. Zevran had not had a friend in a very long time, let alone something more.

He reached over the side of the tub for the pitcher of water to rinse out his hair. As he tilted his head back, he stole a glance at Alistair, and realized that he had fallen asleep sitting in the chair. Zevran bit on his lip to keep from laughing. He finished rinsing out his hair, and stood up from the tub. He picked up his towel from the chair, and began drying himself off.

He had just set the towel on the ground to step onto, when there was a thud. He looked up to see that Alistair had jumped to his feet, and in the process had knocked over his shield and sword. Zevran stood up to his full height. Alistair's face turned a brilliant shade of red, and he turned to the door.

"I, uh, I'll just go send for that mattress then, shall I?"

"You do that."

"Right. I'll do that."

Zevran stepped onto the towel and put his hands on his hips. Alistair hadn't moved. "Alistair?"

The warden started to turn around, then realized what he was doing and snapped his head back to the door. He practically squeaked. "Yes?"

"I suggest if you want a mattress before dark that you go ahead and make those arrangements. Although, my offer still stands; the bed is quite large."

Alistair squeaked again and practically flew out the door.

Zevran laughed so hard, tears came to his eyes.

~~X~~

Alistair was lying on his back, staring up into the darkness of his and Zevran's room. The mattress wasn't quite as uncomfortable as sleeping on the ground, but it was a near thing. He couldn't sleep. Even with his eyes opened, he kept picturing Zevran standing in the bathtub, all wet and naked. He was hard again, and this time he didn't have the luxury of doing anything about it. Although other templars-in-training had had no qualms with cranking one out in a dorm of twenty men, Alistair felt it would be rude for him to do so with Zevran in the room. He was still a gentleman, he told himself.

Zevran suddenly moved on the bed, and his voice sounded closely to his ear. "Alistair?"

Alistair was convinced that Zevran knew about his condition and precisely what he was picturing. He cleared his throat before he answered. "Yes?"

"I have a small confession to make."

"Oh?"

"Yes. That night you found me crying, I admit that it started out as a ruse."

Alistair sat up, his erection diminishing. He could not see the assassin, because of the lack of windows, but he glared in the general direction of his voice. "What do you mean?"

"I admit that I originally sought a more physical solace from you. However, when you appeared at my tent, so concerned, it became real. I needed to tell you. I am sorry that I behaved so badly afterward."

Alistair felt his glare relax. He reached out a hand, and tentatively groped for what he hoped was Zevran's shoulder. He touched skin, and Zevran gasped. Alistair started to jerk his hand away, but Zevran caught his wrist and pressed his hand more firmly to his body. Alistair was touching Zevran's face. He brushed his thumb across Zevran's cheekbone. "Thank you for making it real."

"I could not have done it if you were not who you are, Alistair. I thank you for that." Zevran let go of Alistair's wrist, and Alistair reluctantly dropped his hand to the mattress. Zevran's face was smooth, and the smell of the bath oil filled Alistair's senses. "Shall I tell you about my regret now?"

"You don't have to."

"Of course I do not, but I choose to tell you."

Alistair nodded his head, but then realized that Zevran couldn't see it in the pitch dark of their room. His voice was quiet when he spoke, "Tell me."

Alistair listened as Zevran told him about Rinna, and how he had fallen in love with her. "For a son of a whore raised by whores, I was taught to seek pleasure wherever I could. I was never taught to love. But she, she taught me to love." Alistair's feeling of jealousy was quickly overshadowed by his sympathy for Zevran as the assassin related Taliesin's betrayal, and his own betrayal for the part he played in her death. Alistair did not remember climbing into bed with Zevran, but it suddenly seemed right that he was holding the smaller man in his arms and running his hand through his hair. He felt tears on his bare chest. He whispered "I'm sorry" over and over, until finally Zevran fell asleep. It was hours before Alistair himself fell asleep. One of his last thoughts before he drifted into the Fade was that here, here was a man who could teach him to love.

~~X~~

Zevran entered Redcliffe Castle. He was looking for something.

It had been two days since Alistair had joined him in the tavern. In those two days, the two men had shared confidences with one another that Zevran would not have thought possible had he not been willing to take the first step. They had not shared a bed since that first night, and Zevran was unwilling to broach the topic. He determined that it had to be Alistair's decision.

The previous evening, Alistair had told Zevran of his mother's amulet and how he had broken it in a fit of childhood rage. Zevran had longed to hold the other man when he saw unshed tears gather in his eyes, but he did not reach out to Alistair. Instead, he decided that he would find the amulet for him, if it still existed.

When he was very young, one of the whores had lost a necklace, which one of her clients always asked her to wear when she entertained him. If she did not have the necklace, the client would have very likely killed her. Zevran had liked the whore and he wanted to help her find it. He closed his eyes, and immediately walked across the hall to the room of another whore and pulled the necklace from where she had hidden it between the mattresses.

He couldn't always find lost objects, but over the next few years, he discovered that if he had a personal connection with the one who lost an item, then he could find it. It was during his time with the Dalish clan that he discovered he had inherited this talent from his mother. There was an elf in that clan who could find objects clear across the country.

Zevran closed his eyes, letting his other senses take control, and walked up the stairs. He had no worry of running into anything, and he didn't care if anyone saw him. He wended through the castle, the amulet drawing him.

Then, he stopped. With an exhalation, he freed himself from his other senses and opened his eyes. He was standing by the desk in the arl's study, his hand resting on the amulet. Zevran traced the image of Andraste before he pocketed the heirloom.

"What are you doing?"

Zevran turned around to face Connor. The boy still looked too thin from his harrows with the desire demon. "I was looking for a book. Someone said that it might be in here." Connor cocked his head to the side, wearing the same haughty expression his mother wore. _Orlesians_.

"What book?"

"_The Complete Works of Aden Firethrower._"

"I've never heard of that one."

"No? It is quite famous in Antiva, and I was looking up a particular poem to woo a girl."

"Oh."

"How about you? What brings you to your father's study on this morning?"

"I came to practice." He held out his hand and a faint ball of light flickered then disappeared. "I can't get it right, though."

"What is it you are trying to do?"

"Make a ball of light."

"Ah, the most basic of mage spells, no?"

"Yeah, but I can't do it. It doesn't last long. Analisse was helping me, but then Leliana came and took her to Father's room."

Zevran was horrified when tears welled up in the boy's eyes. He fretted, thinking perhaps he should find a servant or the boy's mother, or anyone, really, to comfort the child. He started to move past Connor when the young boy grabbed his waist. Zevran could have easily broken away from the child, but instead he knelt in front of him and awkwardly patted his shoulder. Connor immediately adjusted his hold on Zevran so that he could sob into his shoulder. Zevran didn't say anything, just holding on until Connor cried himself out.

When Connor's crying eventually eased enough for him to whisper, "I don't want to be a mage," Zevran pulled the boy away and looked at him. He withdrew a handkerchief from his pocket and wiped Connor's face.

"Why not?"

"Because mages are bad, like Jowan. He poisoned Father. I don't want to be bad."

"Listen here: not all mages are bad, just as not all people are bad. Is Analisse bad? Is Wynne bad?" He purposefully didn't mention Morrigan. "They are good, strong mages who use their powers to help other people. When you go to the Tower, you can learn how to heal people the way Wynne does, or to protect people the way Analisse does. Connor, you have great gifts, and you can use them to help people."

"But I was an abomination. What if another demon tries to-"

"Hush. You are stronger and braver than you think. That demon was with you for days, but you still fought her, no? Analisse would never have gone into the Fade to fight for you if she did not think you were worth saving. And now, you know what to look for in future, no?" Connor nodded his head. "Excellent. Why don't you try your ball of light again?"

Connor pulled completely away from Zevran. He screwed his face up in concentration, and opened his hand. A brilliant blue ball of light burst into life, floating above his palm. It stayed there, perfectly still. "I did it," he whispered.

Zevran laughed. "Was there ever any doubt? Go on, show Analisse and Wynne. I am sure that they will want to see."

Connor grinned and spun on his heel, running smack into Alistair. After regaining his balance, and shouting, "Look at what I can do!" he sprinted out of the room and down the corridor.

Zevran stood from where he had been kneeling. He looked at the wet spot on his shirt where Connor's tears had dampened it. "I suppose it will dry."

"Okay, who are you and what did you do with the real Zevran Arainai?" Alistair was leaning against the doorframe.

The Antivan looked up at him. "What is that supposed to mean, my dear warden?"

"It means that you just held a scared little boy and let him cry all over your second favorite shirt. You'll have to have it laundered, you know."

"How do you know this is only my second favorite shirt?"

"The blue one is your first favorite. Don't change the subject."

Zevran smiled, amused at Alistair's insistence. "His mother is preoccupied, and all the servants around the castle look at him as though he were about to go into a killing rage and slaughter them in their sleep. He needed confidence, and he needed to be strong."

"You are a wonder." Alistair shook his head. "Will you walk with me?"

"Of course."

~~X~~

It was strange to be looking out at Redcliffe with Zevran, but it seemed right. When they had come to the bottom of the hill, neither man continued on the path to the village. Instead, they walked to the bridge and looked down on the tiny sprawl of homes and shops. Alistair felt calm and peaceful.

"You know, the last time I stood here with a friend, she walked away hating me."

"Do you have any new earth-shattering secrets to tell me, Alistair?"

_I love you_. "No. I don't think I do. What about you, Zevran; do you have any secrets?"

Zevran snorted. "Other than the obvious ones that would mean the death of both of us should I share them, no." He sighed. "But, I do want to give you something."

Alistair was intrigued. He turned away from the village that stretched out below them and looked Zevran full in the face. The assassin's eyes were unreadable, but looking at him made Alistair's breath hitch all the same. "What is it?"

"What do you know of the Dales and their talents?"

"You mean walking on snow and talking to trees?"

Zevran threw his head back and laughed. "Yes, I suppose you would have heard of those. But, those are just part of the Dalish talents. Some Dales can walk on the snow, and some can talk to trees. Others can bend wood into any weapon, always lead their tribes to a fresh water source, or move among the shadows as easily as if it were daylight. Still others can find any object in the world. My mother had this talent, and she passed some of it to me." Zevran was reaching into his pocket, and Alistair knew before he opened his hand what Zevran was holding. His breath stopped and he put his own hand over Zevran's, preventing him from opening it. Zevran's eyebrows knitted in confusion.

Alistair felt tears pricking the backs of his eyes. "Wait." He closed his eyes and licked his lips, buying himself time before he had to answer Zevran's questioning gaze. The assassin's hand was warm and Alistair felt his skin tingle, much like when Analisse or Morrigan called lightning in a battle.

"Alistair?" Zevran spoke softly.

"I just need… Oh, sod it." He tugged Zevran's hand, bringing him closer. He opened his eyes for just a moment to see surprise light the other man's features. Then, Alistair brushed his lips across Zevran's. There was no pressure. The kiss was by no means made of the stuff that would move heaven and earth. It was chaste, and Alistair ended it almost immediately. He rested his forehead on Zevran's for a moment and then pulled back, breaking all physical contact. "You keep it for now. Analisse leaves for Haven in the morning. She wants me to go with her. You, Sten, and Wynne will stay with the arl. When I return, give it to me then."

"Alistair-"

Alistair couldn't read the note in Zevran's voice, and he didn't give him a chance to finish what he was going to say. He spun on his heel and fled to the castle.

~~X~~


	3. Chapter 3

Edited 20 December 2011

There are relatively few things I own in this world… DA is not one of them.

I do, however, hold a firm grasp of English Grammar, Usage, and Mechanics, as well as a fertile and dirty imagination. Please enjoy.

~~X~~

Chapter 3

Day 1

Zevran froze at the knock on his door, his hand gripping the hilt of the dagger under his pillow.

"Ser? It's Benj, ser. Master said you wanted to be woken. I also have your laundry and breakfast."

Zevran groaned and rolled out of the bed, taking his dagger and wrapping the blanket around his waist. He squinted as he cracked open the door, and, making sure that it really was only Benj, he opened the door for the youth. Benj handed him the taper for his lanterns, then, using the light from the hallway, proceeded to put the laundry packet on the bed before laying out Zevran's meal. Zevran moved around the room, lighting the lanterns.

"Ser? Shall I make your bed?"

"No, that will be quite all right." Benj dropped his head in respect and turned to the door. "Benj, wait for a moment." Zevran crossed to his belt and dug through his money pouch. After pressing a couple of coins into the boy's hand, he dismissed him with a wave.

As soon as the door was closed, he dropped the sheet back onto the bed. While the room had become well and truly his own room when he returned the previous evening to find that all trace of Alistair had been removed—including the mattress—Zevran still felt slightly self-conscious walking around in the nude. He had gotten used to covering himself for Alistair's sake.

Zevran had to admit it to himself; it had been a shock when he had come back to their room last night to find that _all_ of Alistair's belongings were gone. Zevran had planned on the almost-Templar spending the night on the floor again before waking to join Analisse, but it transpired that Alistair had had entirely different plans. Zevran supposed that it had something to do with the kiss.

_The kiss_. Even sitting and eating his breakfast, Zevran could imagine the feel of Alistair's lips on his own, although the whole experience couldn't have lasted more than a couple of heartbeats. Zevran had given and been on the receiving end of his share of blistering, lust-filled kisses that left him hard and aching, but none of them had stayed with him the way Alistair's had. _At least_, he thought to himself, _not since Rinna_.

Day 2

The sun was beating down on Zevran's shoulders, but he didn't feel the heat.

He did feel the weight of the amulet on his chest.

He was in the courtyard of Redcliffe Castle, drilling. He moved through the forms quickly, never pausing to allow himself a break, reveling in the monotony of the well-practiced movements and muscle memory. The forms were never meant to be used in actual combat, but they helped the assassin develop grace and fluidity, as well as focus of the mind. While Zevran was actually doing everything within his power to keep from thinking, because his thoughts seemed always to drift back to Alistair and that damned kiss (damned because it haunted his waking thoughts and sleeping dreams), he was trying to tire his body out to the point where there would be no possible way for him to have dreams that night. No, he wanted none of the dreams like the one he had had last night.

It had started out exquisitely, a dream of making love to Alistair, but even as he had reached orgasm in his sleep, Rinna had appeared, plunging a dagger into Alistair's heart before plunging one into her own. Zevran had woken, covered in a clammy sweat, his dagger in his hand, and his sheets sticky with semen.

"Assassin." Zevran stilled his daggers and turned to look at the Qunari. Sten was standing with his arms folded across his chest, his customary scowl fixed firmly on his face. "Assassin, do away with this drilling. It will not serve your purpose."

Zevran's face tightened and he holstered his daggers before imitating the giant's stance and looking up to meet his eye. "And what, my friend, precisely does that mean?"

Quicker than Zevran would have thought was possible, Sten withdrew the huge sword he had strapped to his back. "This is a weapon." He swung it through the air in a complicated series of wrist, hand, and arm movements. "I can kill a man with this. I can kill scores of men with this." And, as quickly as he had drawn the weapon, he replaced it, his arms across his chest again. "It is a good weapon; it is a fine sword. But, it is not my soul."

"Ah, yes, the Qunari and their soul blades. We have, of course, heard of such things in the Crows, having employed a few… what do you call them? Ah, yes, Tal-Vashoth over the years. I understand that a Qunari is lost without his true blade unless he can find it again. What does such a thing have to do with me?"

"It means, Assassin, that until your Warden is back at your side, you will feel lost. Half of your self is gone. No amount of drilling or exhaustion can change that." As abruptly as he had interrupted Zevran's afternoon, he turned and left without so much as a word of farewell.

Zevran stayed unmoving in the courtyard for some minutes longer before he too left to go back to his lonely, empty room.

Day 4

It was much cooler that morning than it had been in the past several days, a typical Fereldan spring that could not decide if it was leaving winter behind or moving into summer. Zevran was sitting on the floor in meditation, his legs crossed and his hands resting palm up on his knees. He was clothed in only a light pair of breeches. The feel of the amulet still lay heavy around his neck and on his chest. His eyes were opened, but he saw nothing in his room. Instead, he was floating through Ferelden.

Even in his trance state, he couldn't allow himself to appreciate the beauty of the lands that still remained untouched by the Blight. His senses, magic, talent—or whatever it was that allowed him to find lost things—took him to Lake Calenhad, Orzamar, and finally back to the docks of Redcliffe. He got to his feet, his body and mind fully in the control of his talent as he left his room and walked through the tavern, down the hill, and eventually to a house on the water's edge. His eyes blinked and he became aware of his surroundings again, and of the pain in his bare feet. He recognized the home, if one could call it a home, as belonging to the dwarf Dwyn, whom Analisse had recruited to aid in the fight against the corpses. Zevran smiled. Retrieving the sword would be simpler than he could have hoped.

~~X~~

The Qunari wrapped his hands around the hilt of his sword. He closed his eyes. Zevran said nothing. He recognized the look on Sten's face as being one of completion, a feeling he himself had not felt in some time. He listened to the sounds of the birds in the courtyard. He breathed in the smells of spring. In the past few days, he had used his Dalish gift to help two people without any desire or expectation of repayment. He felt strangely good.

"Do you know what I call her, Assassin?" Sten kept his eyes closed. Zevran did not reply, for he knew that the Qunari was not expecting an answer. "She is Asala, my soul." He opened his eyes and met Zevran's. "Thank you, Assassin. When the time comes, I will aid you."

Before Zevran could reply or ask him to what time he referred, the Qunari stalked back into the castle.

~~X~~


	4. Chapter 4

Edited 20 December 2011

Thank you for the reviews and alerts!

There are relatively few things I own in this world… DA is not one of them.

I do, however, hold a firm grasp of English Grammar, Usage, and Mechanics, as well as a fertile and dirty imagination. Please enjoy.

~~X~~

Chapter 4

Day 8

To say that Haven was creepy was analogous to saying Oghren liked to drink a little bit.

From the moment they walked up to the guard at the gate, Alistair had been on edge. _And here you were so excited not to be left guarding the tent. Serves you right, you idiot_. Alistair would have given a lot to be back at the camp, or, better yet, in Redcliffe with Zevran.

Maker, he still couldn't believe he'd just kissed the man like that.

And, as brief as it had been, Alistair could still feel Zevran's lips on his own and his scent in his nostrils. It was these two sense memories that had found Alistair sleepless in his tent, fisting himself into a boneless mass every night since they had left Redcliffe. His face heated with embarrassment as he realized that he was two lustful thoughts away from a raging hard on, which would have felt terrific in the confines of his armor.

"Does this village feel as wrong to anyone else as it does to me?" He actually had to try that sentence twice. His voice wouldn't quite work the first time around. "I mean, obviously aside from the lack of people. There's something else, but I can't quite figure it out."

"Use your nug-humpin' nose," Oghren growled. If Alistair had wanted an image more disgusting to redirect the blood-flow from his cock, he would have been hard-pressed to say exactly what that image might be. "It's near chow, but there's not a whiff of meat."

"And look at the chimneys," Leliana spoke up. "It's frightfully cold, but there isn't a house with its chimney billowing smoke."

"True," Alistair conceded. "But, there's something-"

"Wind." Analisse had her eyes closed, her hair whipping in about her face.

Alistair blinked. No one else said anything either. While a competent leader, the mage was downright strange at times. "Yes, the wind is blow - "

Analisse waved him off. "No, listen."

Alistair snapped his jaw shut on the rest of his comment and did as she bade. He waited a few heartbeats then said, "I don't hear anything."

"Exactly."

Alistair was just shy of losing his temper. Ever since he had told her about his parentage, Analisse had become increasingly distant and Alistair simply couldn't read her anymore. He was about to throw his arms into the air in a right and proper snit when Morrigan finally spoke.

"I believe what our leader is saying is that, although the wind certainly does blow," here she gestured to her wildly blowing hair that had escaped her clasp, "there is no rustling of the leaves, the banging of loose shutters, or even a roaring in the ears. 'Tis as though nature itself has refused to touch this place. The only sounds are the ones we are making. I believe if we were to stay here for the evening, something I do not suggest we do, we would discover that even the noises of the animals of the woods were silenced in this place."

"Yes, nature is silent." To illustrate her point, Analisse stooped to pick up a stick. Holding it up for all of them to see, she snapped it cleanly in two. The stick was dry, Alistair could see, and should have made a noise, but there was only silence.

"Nothin' like this ever happened in Orzammar. My left nut, but I'd give almost anything to be back underground right now." He took a swig from his special "water" pouch. "Well, almost anything. Maybe that 'left nut' comment was a little too hasty." He leered at Morrigan, who made a disgusted noise and turned her back on him.

"I suggest we conclude our business as quickly as possible," Leliana put in.

Alistair wanted to snap that it wasn't as though they had decided Haven was a lovely spot for a vacation, but he merely followed the rest of the party as they filed into the village proper. Other than the eeriness of "nature has abandoned this place," there was a pervading sense of being watched. More than once, Alistair had to quell the desire to shiver. _Grey Wardens do not get the heebie-jeebies; I'm sure there's a rule written somewhere_.

As if they had done it a thousand times, and they may have at this point in their journeys together, they stopped in the center of the village in a circle, each facing the houses, each with weapons ready.

"Do you really think we're going to find Brother Genitivi here?" Leliana asked.

Alistair turned to lock eyes with his fellow Grey Warden. Analisse smiled grimly before responding, "Unfortunately, I think we're doomed to find him here."

"Yes, it's not as though our track record dictates we find him sitting in some palace with scantily clad serving girls waving palm leaves in his face whilst feeding him grapes," Alistair quipped.

"Heh, that's not how I'd be having them serve me."

Before anyone could react to Oghren's vile remark, Morrigan's voice rang out, "I smell blood, and I feel magic. Both sources are in that house." Using her staff, she gestured to the house closest to Alistair.

"So, blood plus magic equals blood magic?" Alistair asked.

"I wouldn't say it's a foregone conclusion, but a likely one."

"Alistair." Alistair looked at Analisse and knew what the command in her voice meant. Sighing, he sheathed his sword and replaced his shield on his back. He took a calming breath, centering his mind and preparing his body to do his own brand of templar magic, should the situation arise. He hated relying on his templar skills. He preferred to drive his sword into flesh or to bash a head in with his shield instead of draining someone of his or her magic. It always felt like cheating and left him exhausted, and not exhilarated like a good old-fashioned physical altercation left him.

"There will be no need for any heroics on the failed templar's part. Both the blood and the magic are quite, quite old." And Morrigan walked straight to the house and opened the door as though she owned it. After a moment of inaction borne from disbelief, the rest of them followed her. Alistair withdrew his sword and shield again, and heard the creaking of leather and metal as the rest of the party also readied themselves.

" 'Tis all clear for you to enter. No one has been here for some time."

"And the blood and magic?" Alistair heard Analisse ask. He was the last one to enter the house.

"We may as well give it its proper name, for this is an altar and a blood magic ritual has been performed."

"Well, that's cheery. Look, kids, as your father drains your neighbor of all of his blood. Make sure you watch closely now. Whoever guesses the correct amount of blood in the body gets first pick at dessert."

"Alistair."

Alistair looked at Analisse again. Two months ago, he would have had her laughing at his pathetic attempt to lighten the mood. Again, he longed for Zevran's company. Not only would he have laughed at Alistair's pathetic attempt at humor, he would have provided a few more details. Instead of replying, Alistair simply turned on his heel and walked back out into the village.

He lunged to the side as the first attacker came at him with a two-handed sword. "Don't look now… But, look now!" he bellowed. His primary job at that moment was to ensure that the rest of his companions could escape the house before they became trapped. Aside from Leliana's rudimentary skills with her stilettos, the rest of the party would have been completely unable to make any sort of showing in such close quarters. Even Analisse's and Morrigan's spell selections would have been limited if they wanted to keep from injuring their companions, although Alistair wasn't sure if the same would be true if he were still in the house with the two mages.

He barely registered running his opponent through before he looked at the group of crazed villagers, for crazed they were. They were little more than farmers and merchants—hapless souls carrying their weapons with neither the strength nor the comfort of the long hours of practice that Alistair and his companions possessed. Still, what they lacked in skill, they made up for in zeal, and Alistair hadn't come across too many forces scarier.

There were no more than six of them, aside from the one Alistair had already dispatched, but they were quickly rushing towards the door. Alistair, swinging his sword over his head, even as he used his shield as a shovel to push the villagers back, bellowed at the top of his lungs again. He barely registered the few injuries he sustained in his efforts. With one last shove, he strained to knock the small mob away from himself.

Four of them recovered immediately, but two of them fell and began writhing on the ground and attempting to claw their eyes out. The two mages were free from the house. Oghren let out a bellow of rage and joined Alistair in the front lines. An arrow lodged itself in Oghren's ax handle as he arced the blade through the air.

"Leliana! Archers!" Alistair shouted. As limited as she may have been in an area as enclosed as the house, out in the open, armed with her recurve, Leliana was deadly.

The rest of the exchange lasted only moments more. When the last arrow flew and the final spell had dissipated, the two Grey Wardens and their companions stood victorious.

Alistair looked at each of the others, making sure that everyone was hale and hearty. Analisse was standing close to Leliana, examining a wound on her forearm. Alistair watched Analisse kiss the smooth skin after healing it, and felt envy burn through him that he had no one there to kiss his wounds. Morrigan merely sniffed and looked out at the rest of the village as though she were bored with the whole affair.

"Here, kid," Oghren offered him a drink.

"No, I'd rather my testicles stay where I last left them, but thanks all the same."

The dwarf guffawed and slapped Alistair on the back. It wasn't as though Oghren had hit him terribly hard—Maker's breath, but Alistair had received rougher treatment when he'd first been sent to the monastery as the bastard son of some unknown noble. Nevertheless, Alistair hissed in pain as he suddenly became aware of all of his injuries all at once. A bout of nausea hit him and he doubled over, dry heaving.

"Kid?"

"Alistair?"

Alistair knew that the others were standing around him, but he couldn't answer their questions. Instead, he toppled forward and passed out.

Day ?

Alistair knew he was at least asleep—if not something more dangerous—and, frankly, after passing out the way he had, he was perfectly willing to keep it that way. He was in the Fade, but it wasn't the "there's a sloth demon trying to swallow your soul" Fade. This was the part of the Fade he used to go to when he was a young boy who wished he had a mother to tuck him in at night instead of the cold surrogate Lady Isolde. He used to come to this meadow, with a blanket laid out in the warm sun. His mother would hold him, and, as he grew older, sit beside him, telling him all the stories Lady Isolde denied him: griffons carrying Grey Wardens to save the land from the Blight, beautiful maidens waiting for their knights in shining armor to rescue them from an evil and cruel father, and, as he got older, male soldiers who fell in love with each other and died fighting side-by-side. But he was not a child sitting in his mother's lap. He was a grown man, dressed in a loose tunic and loose breeches. He lay on his side, his head propped on his hand. He opened his eyes and found Zevran smiling at him, mirroring his position.

Zevran was beautiful in Alistair's meadow. The sun shone diamonds on his unbound hair. He was wearing his favorite shirt and his own loose breeches. Alistair matched his smile and reached out to stroke Zevran's face, letting his fingers card through that bright blond hair occasionally. The hair was silky and the skin was warm. "You're not really here," he stated, but did not stop his ministrations.

"I am not," the Antivan replied and caught Alistair's hand. "That tickles." He kissed Alistair's fingertips then laid the warden's sword-calloused palm to rest on his hip. He let his own hand drop to catch at the drawstrings of Alistair's shirt.

"I wish that you were." Alistair stroked his thumb across sensitive skin; even through the silky texture of the shirt, he felt the Antivan tremble slightly.

"To which I am sure my counterpart would reply that we would be better served in our tavern room in Redcliffe than in a sunny field in the Fade. At least there, we would have a bed, or a mattress on the floor."

Alistair sighed. Of course, the real Zevran would be right, since this Zevran was merely a projection of Alistair himself. "Why have I come back to this field? I haven't been here since I was twelve."

"You were here with your mother when you were sixteen." For the first time, Alistair realized that Zevran's speech was not nearly as accented as it should have been, another indication that this was not truly the man he loved. "You had the - "

"Buckling sickness. I remember. The pain, it was so unbearable, I came here. I guess I really wanted my mother."

"It is not so unheard of for a person to wish for comfort while in pain." Zevran put a hand on Alistair's shoulder and rolled him onto his back. He straddled his hips. Leaning forward until their lips touched, he whispered, "And now?"

Alistair found it very hard to think. He could feel his hardness straining against the confines of his loose breeches. He thought fleetingly that it was ludicrous he would imagine them so dressed when his subconscious obviously had other ideas, and suddenly they were naked. His cock jounced against Zevran's crevice. "And now?" he croaked.

"Yes." Zevran had not moved, despite their nudity and despite his own hardness that Alistair could feel dotting precome on his abdomen. "And why have you come to your field now?"

Alistair concentrated, he really did, but it was so difficult with this Fade Zevran straddling him, cock pressing ever firmer into Alistair's abdomen as the assassin leaned forward, giving Alistair no choice but to meet his fierce gaze. Alistair rubbed his hands up and down Zevran's back, feeling the subtle shift of muscles beneath his fingers. "I-I don't know."

"Think." Zevran moved, finally _moved_, into a sitting position, his cock springing free from where it was trapped between their bodies. Alistair gasped as his own hardness slid along Zevran's backside, dotting his own trail of wetness across fevered flesh.

Alistair arched his back, bucking his hips, and gasped. "Maker! Please - "

"Not yet. You have to remember why you're here." Slowly, as though teasing him, Zevran ghosted his fingers down Alistair's chest, his stomach, his side. He held Alistair's gaze, and it really wasn't fair that Alistair couldn't read his eyes when he was simply a projection of his own self. The assassin jerked his hand back and Alistair screamed, grabbing Zevran's wrist. Blood dripped down the elf's hand from where he held a very small dart, shaped like an arrow.

"Poison," Alistair gasped. _I was poisoned_. Instantly the pain was gone from his side, the dart gone from Zevran's hands, and Alistair was buried to the hilt inside of Zevran, who was riding him, his head thrown back.

With another cry, Alistair came and the meadow, the blanket, Zevran, and even Alistair himself became darkness as Alistair succumbed to true unconsciousness, the word "poison" echoing and following him down.


	5. Chapter 5

Edited 24 December 2011

Thank you for the reviews and alerts!

There are relatively few things I own in this world… DA is not one of them. I do, however, hold a firm grasp of English Grammar, Usage, and Mechanics, as well as a fertile and dirty imagination. Please enjoy.

~~X~~

Chapter 5

Day ?

A woman was singing, her voice lending to the peace of the meadow. Alistair and Zevran were lying on the blanket again, fully clothed. Alistair sighed. "I recognize that voice. Is it… Leliana?"

"Indeed."

"I don't understand what she's saying, though."

"Hmm… Perhaps my counterpart would be able to provide a translation, but-"

"I know. You're just a reflection of my mind, so I'm not going to have my curiosity sated anytime soon."

Zevran quirked an eyebrow at him. "Your curiosity? I think not. However, if there is something else in need of being sated," Alistair blinked and they were naked again, this time with Alistair pinning Zevran into the blanket, the blanket and ground much softer than they should have been, "then I'm sure that I will serve you more than adequately."

Alistair arched his back and almost let himself succumb to the temptation, but instead shoved himself away from Zevran. When he blinked this time, he and Zevran were sitting back to back. And, although they were fully clothed, Alistair could feel heat radiating off of the elf as though they were naked. He cleared his throat. "About this poison… what do we know about it?"

"Other than the fact that it will most likely kill you in a slow and most assuredly painful fashion, not much."

"Thanks for that."

"You are more than welcome, my dear warden."

"Okay, other than the obvious, what do we know about this poison?"

"Let us see." The scene shifted and Alistair found himself sitting in a student desk. He was wearing his Templar Initiate uniform. Zevran was standing in front of him, wearing a set of Cleric's robes. He was holding chalk in his long fingers and on the large slate behind him, "What we know about the poison:" was written across the top followed by, "1. Slow and Painful Death." Alistair jumped straight past the fact that he apparently had a naughty schoolboy kink and leaned forward to add to the list.

"I'm in the Fade, and I haven't woken up since I was first poisoned, so we could add that, right?"

Zevran raised an eyebrow and the chalk became a measuring stick that he was slapping in the palm of his hand.

"Okay, okay," Alistair spoke hastily, "add '2. Unconscious, but with Vivid Trips to the Fade' to the list."

Alistair was staring at the board when the item appeared. Zevran was no longer in front of him, but was now standing behind him, warm hands resting on either of Alistair's shoulders. Alistair squeezed his eyes closed as he felt the Crow lean forward to whisper in his ear, "Very good, my son. The Maker is proud of his brightest students, and you want to please the Maker, don't you." It was not a question. When Alistair didn't respond, Zevran gripped his shoulders more tightly and hissed, "Well?"

"Yes!" Alistair gasped.

"Yes, what?"

"Yes, I want to please the Maker!"

Zevran bit Alistair's ear before whispering, "Then, surely, as your direct line to the Maker, you must also want to please me, no?" One of Zevran's hands slid from Alistair's shoulder, down his chest, his abdomen, and finally to almost-touch the fabric of Alistair's loose pants, the line of which was currently being wrecked by Alistair's ever-growing erection. Alistair groaned and licked his lips. Zevran grasped his hardness more than was strictly comfortable, or pleasurable, causing Alistair to rise from his seat, his eyes opened wide in shock and something more primal. "Well? I am still waiting for an answer, my son."

"Yes!" Zevran twisted his wrist, eliciting another seat-leaving reaction from Alistair. "Yes, I want to please you!"

And, just as with the previous time he was in the Fade, there was no transition from foreplay to the actual sex. Alistair was simply standing behind Zevran, who was bent over the student desk, his robes hoisted up over his hips. Alistair was buried to the hilt, his pants down to his ankles, a hand gripping Zevran's hair. It wasn't more than three hard thrusts before Alistair was climaxing. As he slipped back into true unconsciousness, "2. Unconscious, but with Vivid Trips to the Fade" burned in the blackness of his closed eyelids.

~~X~~

Leliana had stopped singing as soon as she noticed that Alistair's eyes were moving quickly; he was in the Fade. She dipped the cloth in the bowl of cool water and bathed his forehead as his body temperature began to rise. He whimpered at the touch. She squeezed her eyes closed against the tears that threatened to spill from them, and damned her inability to cure him on her own.

As soon as she had found the dart lodged in his side, she knew from the cloying scent that it was the Dreams Killer, a Tevinter poison she had seen only once before in her time at the Orlesian courts. She didn't mention this to the others until she had had her proof, hoping that she was wrong. When Alistair had ejaculated in his unconsciousness, with fever burning his brows, she knew that it was only a matter of time before he would be stuck in the Fade, his body burning him to death.

"How is this any different from the sloth demon?" Analisse had demanded.

Leliana was patient with her answer. "Because, the part of the Fade Alistair is in isn't controlled by any demon. He's in the part of the Fade where we all go when we sleep. Anything he encounters is just a manifestation of his subconscious mind."

Leliana should have expected Oghren's response, but it still caused her skin to crawl.

"Hnh, if that's the type of dreamin' he does in the Fade, makes me jealous. Didn't know the kid had it in him."

"You would not say such things if you knew what those dreams mean, Oghren. Each time he enters the Fade, it kills him more."

"What do you mean?"

Leliana indicated Alistair's sweat-drenched body. "See how he burns with fever? I assure you, it is not just from the pleasure. Each subsequent trip into the Fade will cause him to burn hotter. Each trip will last longer. His sanctuary inside the Fade, and whatever it is that causes him such pleasure, will warp and transform into a nightmare. He will die, screaming and in agony."

"Correct me if I'm wrong, but that is precisely why it would be best for us to finish this mission and find these ashes with all speed." Morrigan entered the room. She and Analisse had taken turns setting up different wards to protect Leliana and Alistair in the cleanest house of the village. Now that she had returned, it was time for the rest of the party to head up to the Chantry at the top of the hill.

Analisse knelt beside Leliana, and through the hand she placed on her shoulder, Leliana could feel all the concern and love she conveyed. "Are you sure you'll be safe?"

Leliana reached up to run her fingers across the mage's knuckles. "Safer than you. You and Morrigan have done all you can to protect us, and if someone does enter, well, I'm not without some means of defense. Of course, if you three cause as much trouble as I think you will, I do not believe anyone will venture into this house."

Analisse kissed her cheek. "Be safe. Take care of him and yourself. I don't want to think about what might happen if I lost both of you."

Alistair groaned, a deep groove appearing between his eyes.

"Then I suggest you hurry. We must hurry back to Redcliffe if we are to save him."

"Seems to me, we're going to get some magic ashes to cure the arl. Couldn't that help the kid here?" Leliana's ears, trained in the subtleties of secrecy and music, could hear the note of concern in Oghren's voice, but she knew from his stance that he would not appreciate her offering him any comfort.

"The arl's poison has no cure, where Alistair's does. If he fights the Fade and its… allures, then he will survive the return trip. He must stay strong."

Analisse rose from Leliana's side. "Then we must hurry."

~~X~~


	6. Chapter 6

Edited 24 December 2011

Thank you for the reviews and alerts!

There are relatively few things I own in this world… DA is not one of them. I do, however, hold a firm grasp of English Grammar, Usage, and Mechanics, as well as a fertile and dirty imagination. Please enjoy.

~~X~~

Chapter 6

Day 13

Analisse spilled more water onto the rag she was using to bathe Alistair's forehead. When Leliana had fainted from exhaustion, Analisse had halted the party and set camp for the night. She kissed Leliana's forehead and left the bard sleeping in their tent. Morrigan didn't say a word as she laid her hands on Analisse's shoulders and infused her with renewed energy and strength, as though Analisse had had a full night's rest. Morrigan didn't have to say anything; Analisse was well aware that she could only survive one more day's traveling before she too would succumb to exhaustion. One day more was all they really needed, Maker willing.

They had left Haven three days ago, the pinch of Andraste's ashes safely tucked away in Analisse's pouch. She had wanted desperately to take more of the ashes for Alistair, but the Guardian had intimated that such an action would be… unwise. Even now, mopping the sweat from his face and listening to him moan, she was sorely tempted to use the ashes for her brother Warden.

"Come, my prince, you can't possibly think I can stop the Blight all on my own, can you? Surely you're not that daft." Alistair gasped and tears leaked from the corners of his eyes. Analisse refused to allow herself to give in to her own feelings of grief and helplessness; she kept her voice light and cheerful. "I know what you're thinking; you're thinking that I couldn't possibly mean any of this since I kept pushing you away. What can I say? I guess Morrigan's not the only bitch. I was angry with you, though. Jowan was my closest friend at the Tower, and he betrayed me, my trust. When you didn't tell me that you were, well, you, I kept seeing Jowan slicing his hand open and using blood magic. I was so afraid to get any closer to you." Alistair's breathing sped up and he started mumbling, the only coherent word was the repetition of Zevran's name. "I was wrong to do that, Alistair, so wrong. I'm not going to apologize, though, not right now. I'm only going to eat crow when you're here to enjoy it. So, you have to get better. You have to fight for Ferelden, for me, for Zevran. He loves you, you know. No amount of imagined pleasure can feel as good as the real thing. Trust me, Alistair. You have to fight."

~~X~~

Day ?

Zevran. That meant something to him, but what?

If he had had control of his physical body, he might have punched something in his frustration, or, at the very least, given a very manly growl. But, this wasn't even the Fade. He was floating in darkness, aware of his thoughts, but unable to grasp his memories.

Zevran.

Zevran.

Zevran, it means…

Danger, daggers and poison.

Grace, litheness, dance.

And diamonds?

No, nothing so plain as the baubles nobles wore at their ears, throats, and fingers.

Zevran was thousands of diamonds, sparkling off of light blonde hair in the afternoon sun.

Zevran was beautiful, but, for the life of him, Alistair could not remember the color of his eyes.

He was his, though—Alistair belonged to this Zevran.

A brushing of lips, a warmth spreading throughout his body: Alistair walked away from him, a promise burning in his heart that he would return to him, to this Zevran.

He willed himself to remember the color of his eyes. He started with the tips of his ears, yearned to touch them, to taste them, to see if he could send shivers down the assassin's spine. His eyebrows, then, a darker shade of blonde than his hair. His nose. His lips he had only tasted once. His chin. His cheeks. The waves of ink on the side of his face. He experienced all of these so viscerally as he brought each feature to mind. He was almost there, could almost name the color of his eyes, but not quite.

Not quite.

~~X~~

Day 14

Zevran mentally jerked awake. He maintained the slow breathing and full-bodied torpor of a still sleeping person. True to his normal sleeping habits, he had not moved during the night: one hand clasping the amulet resting on his chest, the other gripping the dagger he kept under his pillow. He knew that if there were a window, there would be only the barest hint of morning sun coming into his room.

Something was different. There was no noise outside to alert him to a presence—benevolent or otherwise—but there was a tension in the air as though there were. He sat up in bed, his grip on the weapon unyielding. The lantern in the corner of the room was still burning, though so low as not to disturb him while he slept. He slid from the bed and crossed the room to raise the flame. He quickly went through his morning stretches, Crow instincts too ingrained in his being to allow his weapon to be very far from his side. While no amount of stretching was going to ease the tension in his mind, his body was at least ready for any attacks that might come his way.

During the last fortnight, he had only worn his armor one other time. That morning, however, he donned all of his accoutrement. He stood in front of the mirror and tucked Alistair's amulet beneath his breastplate, the metal a comfort against his chest. Whatever it was that was surely coming would not wait for him to braid his hair in his normal style. He instead opted to pull his hair back tightly with a leather thong. At least his hair was now long enough that no stragglers would escape and distract him in the heat of battle or block his sight at an unfortunate moment.

Not for the first time, he thought of cutting his hair, but then he remembered how much Alistair liked it long.

He was just replacing his dagger beneath his pillow when he heard the heavy steps of Sten coming down the hall. Zevran crossed the room and opened the door before the Qunari had a chance to lift his hand and knock. Zevran's voice was low when he spoke. "They have returned."

"Yes."

"Something is wrong."

"Yes."

"It's – " He knew, but he couldn't say what his heart had already told him.

"Yes. Your soul, he needs you."

Without a word, Zevran stepped out of his room, pulled the door closed, and preceded Sten on the trek to the castle. The giant remained quiet as he followed Zevran. The assassin knew that even if he were to ask what was wrong with Alistair, Sten would not answer him. Sten wasn't telling him anything about Alistair's condition in order to prevent any accidental distortions. Knowledge of this didn't stop Zevran from desperately wanting some reassurance that Alistair's malady was minor. As it was, his mind quite stubbornly supplied him with all manner of dire situations that would steal Alistair from him. With each step that brought him closer to the castle and the harsh realities of war, the amulet grew heavier and heavier, his imagination wilder and wilder.

He stopped walking on the bridge, Their Bridge. His lips burned with remembered warmth as his heart constricted. Knees that had supported him his whole life—throughout his days training to become a Crow, his earliest contracts when he survived by the grace of luck and the Maker, his role in Rinna's death, and his finding out that she had been innocent—gave out on him, threatening to drop him to the wooden boards. He gasped for air.

Zevran needed to run. He was in entirely too deep, his heart at risk. If he walked into the castle only to sit by Alistair's side as he watched the man die, Zevran would not survive. What had first driven him to Ferelden now paled in comparison to what he stood losing now.

He scrabbled at the neck of his breastplate, his fingers fumbling on the chain of the amulet. He freed it from his armor and tore it from his neck. The metal bit into his hand as he held it at his side, his chest heaving as he tried in vain to find breath.

_If I throw this over the bridge and leave now, I'll be safe. I'll hide. The Crows won't find me. I won't have to watch him die. I'll - _

Unbidden, Alistair's face filled his mind. He was squatting at the entrance of Zevran's tent, his eyes burning with something akin to hatred as he spoke of his regrets that he had not died in Duncan's stead.

Regret.

Could he leave now—let Alistair die alone—and not regret it? Could he live with himself for such an action?

The answer was no. If he left now, his regret would be far worse than what he had felt after Rinna, and his commitment to end his life would be much stronger this time around. He would lose the person he had become.

His knees grew strong again, holding him up. His breath was slow and steady. His grip on the amulet, while no less sure, was no longer painful.

"Assassin, are you well again?"

"I am."

"Then we should proceed."

Zevran took a step forward, and then another.

~~X~~


	7. Chapter 7

Warning: This chapter contains torture and rape.

There are relatively few things I own in this world… DA is not one of them. I do, however, hold a firm grasp of English Grammar, Usage, and Mechanics, as well as a fertile and dirty imagination. Please enjoy.

~~X~~

Chapter 7

One of Alistair's earliest memories was bringing Arl Eamon a goblet of wine after dinner. He then spent the rest of the evening watching the arl work in his study, answering questions of the estate that the arl would ask him. This became a nightly ritual, and Alistair relished this time, treasured it, needed it. It reminded him that he was more than, at first, who his father might or might not be, and then, after he had been told the truth, who his father was.

Lady Isolde had been the arl's wife for a little over a year and Alistair's evenings with the arl remained one of the few unchanged things since the cold Orlesian had taken over the household. He was eight years old and navigating through the corridors, taking care not to slosh the wine. He was about to round the corner, in the home stretch, when disaster struck.

Lady Isolde was standing just on the other side and one of them—Alistair could never quite decide which of them it had been—caused the collision. Alistair's fingers let the goblet slip to the ground, wine covering the arlessa and the horror-struck boy.

"Fool! Look what you've done!"

"I-I'm sorry, Lady Isolde! I didn't mean to."

"That was the last of the wine my father sent as a wedding gift! There were only two bottles of the vintage left in Thedas!"

Alistair could feel the tears welling up in his eyes. He stooped to pick up the goblet. "I'll clean it up! I promise!"

Lady Isolde smacked the goblet from his hand. "You've done quite enough already. Report to the stables. A night spent with the horses may teach you manners we'd expect to come from an arl's son."

Alistair's eyes grew wide, causing his tears to fall. "But, I'm not-"

She made a slashing motion with her hand and, for just a moment, Alistair thought she might strike him. He flinched. "You are an arl's ward, are you not? You shall act accordingly. Tell Master Farlin that he is to prepare a stable for you to sleep in tonight. I do not want to see your face until supper meal tomorrow. Do you understand me?"

Alistair stared at her shoes. "Yes, Lady Isolde."

"Well? What are you waiting for? Go!"

Alistair spun on his heel, nearly losing his balance in the spilled wine, and ran as fast as he could until he was in the stables.

Master Farlin hadn't seemed surprised to see Alistair. "Ar, lad, ya bed's all ready for ya in Ole Bessie's stall." He lifted the latch to the stall and Alistair sniffled as he looked inside. There was a pile of straw in one corner. In the other was a pitcher with a tin mug beside it. "Bessie was a clean girl, a right an' proper lady. Ya can rest assured she took care of her stall. Redcliffe never had a better lass than what she was, so ya've been granted quite an honor to use it. Go on in." He gave Alistair a little nudge forward. Alistair stumbled and turned around to look at the stable master. Tears that had dried up while he was running through the castle were falling fresh. The wizened old stable master sighed and knelt down in front of him, his joints popping. "Oh, Maker, what I wouldn't give for a new set of knees. Cold's comin' tonight." He put his hands on either of Alistair's shoulders and fixed him with a kind look. "Now, lad, I know ya don't understand what's going on, an' it's not my place to tell ya, but just know that ya done nothin' wrong to be out here tonight. Nothin', ya hear?" Alistair wiped his eyes and nodded. "There's a good lad. Now, I can't give ya a lantern an' it's too cold to open the windows, but if ya was to look in the hay, ya might find summat in there to make the night pass a bit easier. I'll be back at first light. Ya can stay with me tomorrow. Keep ya chin up."

Alistair nodded his head again. He was about to turn around when something occurred to him. "Won't… Arl Eamon wonder where I've gone? I was supposed to-"

He stopped talking as Master Farlin shook his head. "No, lad, I'd not rely on him to rescue ya from the stables this night, nor would I be lookin' to spend anymore evenings in his study."

Alistair's heart shrank a little at this news, but he knew deep down that Master Farlin was right. Lady Isolde had been a whirlwind of change when she had first come to the castle. Alistair thought he had been safe from those changes, but he was not. He could try and cling to the hope that things would go back to normal, but Alistair was not a stupid child.

It was a horrible memory for Alistair, and, as an adult, he would tell the asker that, yes, this was the night his childhood had ended. But, as horrible as the emotions surrounding the night were, the experience wasn't completely terrible. Under the hay, Master Farlin had left a blanket folded up for him, along with a cloth wrapped around a chunk of Alistair's favorite cheese. In the twelve years since that awful night, Alistair had never had cheese taste quite so good as that gift had.

The poison—or was it the Fade?—bastardized this already terrible memory and changed it into something infinitely worse.

Just as the Zevran-turned-Cleric Fade experience had taken place in the meadow _and_ the chantry, the Redcliffe stables were merely superimposed over the meadow.

Despite this familiarity, the Fade felt different from any of his previous experiences. This had been an actual memory from his childhood. And though Alistair was no longer eight and could quite easily have escaped the stall, twenty-year old, Templar-trained, battle-hardened, Grey Warden Alistair could no more escape than the little boy Alistair could have. He was crouching on his heels. The night air was close and charged. Dread filled his gut. Lightning lanced the sky, momentarily illuminating the stall, and the resulting thunder caused him to jerk and nearly lose his balance. Before he could recover and slow his heart, another lightning strike illuminated the stall and Alistair was no longer alone. He did not hear the thunder strike that second time. He was too afraid to process anything.

"Alistair, stand up, you stupid boy." Zevran's voice was devoid of warmth, the cold of it spearing Alistair. Lightning flashed once, twice, and on the third time the stall remained lit. Zevran did not move from the doorway of the stall, but Alistair flinched as though he had. Zevran was dressed in black riding leathers, his arms crossed over his chest. There was something different about him, and Alistair knew it was more than just his inability to give Zevran a passable Antivan accent.

Zevran still had the build of a dancer of death. His hair was still golden, his face still beautiful. His eyes, however, were different. And though Alistair still could not recall what color his Zevran's eyes were, he knew that they were not the soul-sucking blackness of the manifestation before him. Alistair felt no love for this man, no desire to reach out to him and dance fingers across his abdomen, kisses across his cheek. He felt only fear and the pervading desire to flee. Alistair backpedaled into the corner of the stall. There was no hay, blanket, or cheese. He realized that he was naked.

Zevran barked a cold laugh. "And where do you think you are going, my pet? Do you imagine you can melt through the walls and escape? I confess it would be amusing to see you try, but I can think of better ways to pass the time. But first, I think I should test the merchandise, don't you think?"

As much as Alistair would have liked to call him otherwise, he couldn't help but think of this thing in front of him as Zevran. The wrongness of doing so filled him with a sick dread.

This Zevran took a step toward him, then another, and another, and another, until he was standing directly over Alistair's huddling form. Alistair cried out as Zevran wrenched him by the jaw, forcing him to turn his head. He squeezed his eyes closed as tightly as he could as Zevran prized his mouth opened as widely as he could, examining his teeth. The hinges of Alistair's jaw ached and his neck protested the angle it was held in. During the examination, Zevran made humming noises, as though agreeing with himself. He forced Alistair to look him in the eyes.

"So far, an excellent specimen. Stand up." He let go of Alistair and took a step back to clear some space. Alistair remained unmoving. Zevran tutted and grabbed Alistair by the hair, pulling harshly and forcing Alistair to surge forward, his knees pressing hard into the ground until he scrambled to his feet. Zevran let go of his hair, then, and yanked Alistair by the wrist, pulling him to stand in the middle of the stall. The lighting was suddenly much brighter, harsher.

When Zevran let go of Alistair's arm, the cringing man couldn't help but hunch his shoulders in an effort to make himself smaller, to hide. He covered his genitals with his hands. Pain ripped across Alistair's back and he arched, drawing his shoulder blades close together. The Fade had shifted. Zevran was standing behind Alistair. Before Alistair had time to recover from the strike on his back, each deltoid received the same treatment. Zevran moved to the front of Alistair, hands clasped behind his back, the tip of a riding crop visible over his right shoulder. "Stand up straight, arms to the side, legs spread apart."

When Alistair didn't immediately fulfill his command, Zevran lashed out with the crop, stinging first one thigh and then the other. Alistair cried out and moved into position. "That's my good boy." He reached out and caressed Alistair's cheek. Alistair tensed to prevent himself from flinching. "Now, let's take a look at the rest of you." He was cold and meticulous as he examined Alistair, running his hands across his chest, his flanks, his arms, his legs, his back. He kneaded his skin, testing the firmness of the muscle. The only time he flinched was when Zevran caressed his manhood and squeezed his testicles. Alistair remained silent throughout the process, trying in vain to change this nightmare and turn it into something pleasant. Although, as Zevran licked a strip of skin over his heart, he'd have taken an archdemon dream if it meant this hell would end.

"Yum." Zevran licked his lips, as though he had just eaten a dessert. "You taste as delectable as you look. Pretty to look at, pretty to eat, but how well do you ride?"

Alistair barely registered what Zevran had said before he was screaming in pain. The screams tore at his through, but they were muted in his ears. If Alistair hadn't been in such agony, he might have tasted blood in his mouth from the bit that was tearing the delicate skin at the corners of his mouth. The pain that was ripping into him from the rape was liquid fire radiating throughout his body and it eclipsed everything else. He realized dimly that the angle at which Zevran was holding him, the placement of his hands, was wrong for him to be fucking him. With ever growing horror, he realized that it was the handle of the riding crop instead. He longed to lose consciousness, to be away from the stables with the reins pulling at the bit and holding his head at such an angle that it could very well have injured him, if this were the waking world. Unfortunately, as he was all too aware, this Fade experience was different from his previous ones that left him blissed out and sated, floating in the darkness. As the rape continued and he felt blood flow freely from his entrance, the words "poison" and "not Zevran" repeated in his mind.

~~X~~

Zevran brought Alistair's hand to his lips and brushed a kiss across the knuckles. Alistair was sweating and moaning. Tears were streaming from both eyes. Zevran had needed to see Alistair after Leliana had told him what poison was used. He needed to know to what stage the Fade experiences had progressed. Zevran had sat by him for what seemed like an impossibly long time, but really had only been moments. His hopes that Alistair was still experiencing pleasure were destroyed with Alistair's lack of arousal and increasingly distressing pleas for the pain to stop. He squeezed Alistair's hand tightly and his stomach turned when Alistair cried out, "No, Zev-Zevran! Please stop!"

"Zevran."

It was Leliana. She knew, as well as he did, that Alistair's dreams turning meant that he was nearing the end. When Alistair started exhibiting physical injuries, their time to heal him would be gone and Alistair's death imminent.

"Zevran." Leliana's voice was more urgent this time. "Please, we have to cure him."

"I know." His voice wasn't quite a whisper. He leaned forward and kissed Alistair's dry lips. "Awhile longer, my love, please: I need you to keep resisting."

He drew away from Alistair—his soul—his eyes finding Analisse's. She nodded her head in understanding and took up Alistair's bedside vigil. Zevran walked out of the room, Leliana behind him.

~~X~~

AN: I made Alistair freaking young, I know… but, I always pictured him as being young, and not just because of his naïveté. I would imagine that at some point in time the Chantry would be like, "Dude, either take your vows or leave. Free-loader" (I figure they've invested too much in him for him to be a lay brother). Since he hadn't taken his vows and they didn't kick him out (yet), I made him a young'un. Well, he's young to me… I'm 28.


End file.
